


All In

by Sand



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Crossdressing, Dress-Up Fic, F/M, Femdom, Forced Crossdressing, Strip Tease, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 20:24:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6165693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand/pseuds/Sand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint loses a bet and has to take the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hekle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hekle/gifts).



**Chapter One**

  
Clint Barton knows that you don’t bet against one of the most accomplished agents in the world when she knows what she’s talking about. The problem is that she always  _looks_ like she knows things and he was pretty sure that this time she didn’t.  Whoops.  
   
“Shit, Nat. Come on. Don’t make me do this. I already said that I was sorry.” Clint turns his best puppy-dog look on his partner, with predictable results.  
   
Natasha smiles slow and sweet, her eyes never leaving his face.  
   
“Oh, no. Not this time.” She rolls onto her stomach on Clint’s unmade bed, kicking a foot into the air. “I’ve let you off before,  _miliy moy_. You didn’t learn anything from it. Weren’t even properly thankful for leniency.”  
   
“I don’t even have anything that would fit me,” He tries. He assures himself that he’s  _not_ pouting. Just being practical.  
   
Nat’s smile doesn’t falter, though her eyes narrow ever-so-slightly. Clint swallows his next objection and throws himself into the chair in front of the desk.  
   
“Of course you don’t. That’s why we’re going shopping.” Smooth, smoky and unflappable. “It’s not like I expect you to have size fourteen stiletto heels lying around. If you did, this punishment wouldn’t make much of an impact on you. So, it wouldn’t be suitable.” Her smile widens. “In that case, I’d have to be much tougher on you, so we’re starting easy. You should be grateful.”  
   
“Nat...” Clint really,  _really_ doesn’t want to do this.  
   
Natasha bounces her foot. “Don’t worry. I know just the place.”  
   
Clint clenches his teeth, a muscle jumping in his jaw, but knows that further objection would do no good so he swallows it.  
   
Nat laughs, pleased. Clint looks out the window and wishes that having that laugh directed at him didn’t affect him the way that it always did.  
   
...  
   
Natasha is already outside, straddling her Ducati cycle at the curb, all denim and leather. She looks Clint up and down, taking in everything.  
   
She tosses him a helmet and straps on her own. It matches her charmingly-too-big leather jacket. The full-face helmet is simple. Black. Menacing.  
   
“Very Celty,” He murmurs, but she doesn’t acknowledge it.  
   
Once Clint is settled onto the back with his hands on her hips, she kicks the Scrambler into purring life and weaves into traffic, one with her machine.  
   
He slips his hands farther around her waist and leans into her back, resting his cheek against her shoulder and breathing in the herbal smell of her shampoo mixed with the earthy smell of the well-oiled jacket. He concentrates on the feel of her against his front and the sound of the bike, using it to clear his mind of everything.  
   
The quarter-hour ride wasn’t long enough for his taste.  
   
Natasha pulls the bike up to the front of a nondescript storefront. The sign reads: Small Blessings - Fashion by Appointment.  
   
Nat takes off her helmet and sits up to press her back against him for a moment, letting him take strength from the contact.  
   
She slides off the bike and offers him a hand, only smiling when Clint ignores it, puts his helmet on the back of the bike and walks to the door.  
   
The bell above the door jingles pleasantly and calls a tall, elegant man from the rear.  
   
“Ms. Roman, how delightful to see you again! And this must be the husband I’ve heard so much about!”  
   
Clint bites back several responses in turn and ends up just wordlessly accepting the hand that the man offers him.  
   
Natasha offers her hand as well. “Nadine, please. It’s so good to see you, Mr. Heller. Yes, this is Francis.”  Clint flinches at his middle name. He hates that stupid name.  
   
Though she doesn’t look at him at all, Nat’s smile widens slightly. “I trust everything is all set up?”  
   
“Of course. The private rooms are this way. It’s so good to have you both.”  
   
The interior of the shop is understated elegance with no wares in evidence, but the private room they are guided to kicks it up a notch. Several deep and comfortable-looking couches are along one wall, with a three-way dressing mirror opposite. Everything is white on white with cream and gold accents.  
   
Heller shows them into the room and opens a bottle of champagne, pouring two glasses.  
   
“Your packages are there, Nadine, Francis. Please ring if you need any other sizes or anything at all. I’ll give you your privacy.” He bows to Natasha, slightly more shallowly to Clint and sweeps out with a charming smile.  
   
Natasha smiles widely and stretches her arms over her head before stripping out of her jacket and tossing it across the arm of a couch. She’s wearing a green crushed velvet top under it. She sees him looking and runs her fingers from her shoulder, over her breast, down to the where the material loosely brushes the waistband of her jeans. She toys with it, watching his face.  
   
“It’s a lovely shirt, Clint, one of my favorites. I’m not wearing a bra,” she smiles. “It always keeps my nipples so hard when I wear it like this.”  Her expression doesn’t change at his gasp of indrawn breath. She draws the fabric up a few inches, revealing creamy skin to his hungry eyes.  
   
She watches him steadily, no hesitation or shame or modesty to be seen. He’s never seen her  _quite_ like this. It’s scary. Exhilarating. Ominous.  
   
“I considered getting you something like it, but decided to go a bit more traditional. If you are a  _very_ good boy,” She draws the fingers of her other hand over her bare skin, savoring the bumps of gooseflesh that raise at her own touch. She doesn’t try to hide the pleasure from him, or her satisfaction at the groan that slips from him. “Maybe we can have a little bit of fun together after this. However,” She holds up a finger, “if you try to block this out or not give into it fully...” Natasha trails off.  
   
Clint finds himself nodding, jerkily. Nat catches her full lower lip between her teeth.  
   
“Good boy,” she praises after just a beat. “No jokes, no distance. Just take it.” Clint swallows, but nods again, earning another smile.  
   
“Now,” she says, letting the hem fall back into place and folding bonelessly onto the nearest sofa. “Strip for me.”  
   
Clint pulls his gray t-shirt over his head and tosses it away. He drops his hands to the button of his jeans but she stops him, pulling his hand away and holding it in both of hers.  
   
“No. Clint,” She looks up at him reproachfully. “I didn’t say ‘strip’. I said ‘strip for  _me’_.”  
   
After a brief hesitation, Clint nods. He takes a deep, shaky breath, then meets Nat’s eyes directly, looks at  _her_. She smiles and releases his hand.  
   
He drops it to his jeans again and still holds her gaze, smiling when he sees her gaze flicker to where he’s toying with the button. He takes another deep breath and lets it out, letting her see his conflicting emotions - apprehension, fear, desire, doubt - and pops the button.  
   
Clint is very aware of Nat’s breathing as he draws down the zipper. She leans forward, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. “That’s it, baby,” She purrs. “This for you and  _me_.”  
   
His lips quirk in a wry smile. “I’m beginning to think that this isn’t just about a bet, Tasha.”  
   
“Only a nodding acquaintance to it,” she says agreeably. “Complaints?”  
   
He sighs.  
   
“No. You know me. I take what I can get.” She rolls her eyes. Clint realizes without her having to correct him that he’s edging too close to the ‘no jokes’ rule. He re-centers himself and continues.  
   
He hooks his thumbs in the waist of his jeans and begins to teasingly lower them, carefully making sure that his boxers stay up. He toes off his sneakers, kicks out of the jeans and stands in front of Natasha in just his undershorts.  
   
Specifically a well-washed and worn pair of red, white and blue boxers with little chibi Avengers printed all over.  
   
Clint’s hands flutter as he processes the desire to hide himself from that intense blue inspection, but he swallows it down and puts his hands at his sides, earning himself a pleased chuckle.  
   
His broad chest glimmers in the artfully soft and indirect lighting. His golden hair, still mussed from the helmet and shucking his shirt, manages to look enticingly tousled. The soft cotton boxer shorts hug his hips lovingly. His well-formed thighs and calves tense under the sweep of Natasha’s eyes as though he can feel weight from her gaze. He wasn’t wearing socks. His toes dig into the plush pile of the cream-colored carpet as he waits for her next instruction.  
   
Natasha looks him over lazily for  _far_ too long. Finally, she reaches for a small gift bag on the table beside her, one with a white-on-white ‘SB’ logo, frothing with creamy tissue paper, artfully fluffed.  
   
“All of it,” she commands, casual. As though she does this sort of thing all the time. Which, thinking on it, wouldn’t actually surprise him at all. If she doesn’t, she kinda should. She’s good at it.  
   
He feels... Humiliated, but the center of her loving attention, however undeserved it might be. Humbled, even controlled, but...safe.  
   
Clint pushes down the last scrap of dignity that he has and tosses it away to land on his t-shirt in the corner. His fingers twitch, but now he has absolutely nothing to hang onto.  
   
Nat gives his dick a cursory glance to see what she has to work with, but he gets the distinct impression that she wouldn’t care no matter what he looked like.  
   
Clint fleetingly wishes that he was impressive in some regard in that particular area. But - normal, normal, normal. That’s him. It would be funny if he was one of those guys who make women’s eyes widen when they shuck down. Like Thor.  
   
Hell, Clint had seen both women and  _men_ flinch when they see Thor naked.  _He_ flinched the first few times. Okay, he  _still_ flinches. But just a little. And frankly, it’s probably expected at this point. Thor might notice if he stops flinching, and that would be an exceedingly uncomfortable conversation.  
   
The rustle of paper catches his attention again.  
   
Natasha draws out a smooth slide of aquamarine satin from the bag and holds it up with a tiny smirk, then tosses it to him.  
   
Clint was expecting a g-string.  _Maybe_ a thong. You know, a punishment. This, he never could have guessed.  
   
The satin is slick and heavy in his hands, cut slightly fuller in the front than if it were intended for a woman. The back of the panty looks comfortable and as though it wouldn’t ride up. Other than the decadent material itself, the most feminine thing about it is the tiny silver bows on either hip in the front where the elastic straps of the bikini meet the front material. He notes absently that the color of the satin exactly matches the gray-blue of his eyes.  
   
When he sees that Nat is waiting expectantly, Clint sighs and steps into the underwear, drawing them up and settling the surprisingly comfortable straps low on his hips. He discreetly adjusts his package. To his absolute surprise, the panties are erotically comfortable, the material cool and rich against his skin. The unfamiliar sensation gives him a focus that he hadn’t realized that he needs until he has one.  
   
Finished with settling himself, he looks down at Natasha to see her eyes gleaming with a look he’s never seen before. He would have laid money that he’s seen every expression that she had to make...but, well, that sort of thing is what got him into this  situation in the first place.  
   
She lets out a quiet breath, then says softly, “You’re beautiful. It suits you just the way I hoped.”  
   
She reaches into the bag again and draws out another handful of matching fabric. She stands and circles around him, looking from all angles. Clint bites back a reflexive joke before it can escape to break the tension. It’s starting to sink in that Nat  _enjoys_ the tension. That she shapes it like a sculptor into exactly what she needs.  
   
He can’t bite back the low curse when she trails her nails down his spine, however.  
   
Her throaty laugh makes his dick jump at least as much as the pressure of her warm palm as it slides over his shoulders. Maybe more. Okay. More.  
   
She has such a flexible, expressive voice. It always gets to him.  
   
Natasha stands behind him and slips her arms around his waist as she leans against his bare back. She stands on tiptoe and nips at the tender place where his neck meets his shoulder.  
   
Clint doesn’t try to hide his deep groan and feels her approval radiating out to him without even seeing her. Somehow, that makes it better. Both more comfortable and more erotic at the same time.  
   
He’s proud that it only takes a handful of seconds to realize that she has passed the matching bra in front of him and is waiting for him to put his arms in.  
   
He slips his arms through the straps without comment and Natasha draws it up, settling the thin double straps over his muscled shoulders. She meticulously straightens the bottom band and then hooks it between his shoulder blades - tight but not constraining. He can still breathe fine. Sort of.  
   
Well, the  _lingerie_ has nothing to do with restricting his breathing, anyway.  
   
Clint looks down at himself and sees to his surprise that through some sort of tailoring magic of artful shaping and boning, the bra gives the illusion of small but respectable breasts without looking artificial at all.  
   
Nat circles to the front and hums with pleasure, turning her hot eyes up to meet his. She trails her fingertips up his arms to his shoulders, then back down to his wrists, never taking her eyes from his face.  
   
She draws her nails up his arms this time, then slowly,  _slowly,_ down his chest and over the unaccustomed fabric, tracing the dip of his waist and then settles her hands lightly on his hips, her fingers dipping under the elastic band on the right.  
   
The sound Clint makes can only be called a shaky gasp.  
   
Natasha pays no attention to it, caught up her own moment.  
   
Slowly, she leans in on tiptoe, brushing the velvet of her top against the satin of his, using the drag of the fabrics together to tease her nipples. She doesn’t try to hide from him what she’s doing or how it makes her feel. It’s just so damn beautiful that he can’t stop another small sound from escaping.  
   
Nat stretches up and catches  _this_ sound with her mouth, teasing Clint’s lips open with her eager tongue as she leans in and presses the length of her body to his, her hands slipping from his hips to the small of his back to hold him as close to her as she can get him.  
   
This time, they both whimper.  
   
She pulls away with a self-satisfied smile and quickened breathing.  
   
Clint has to struggle to  _not_ pretend. Pretending is what he does.  
   
Being smooth. Disciplined. Unflappable.  
   
Don’t let anyone see you’re rattled. Don’t let anyone know you have a weakness. Don’t let anyone see when it hurts... or even when it feels good.  
   
Done properly and long enough you don’t even know it yourself.  
   
This feels like keeping his eyes open while watching a needle approach his cornea. It’s an actual struggle to  _not_ turn away, to  _not_ protect himself.  
   
He pushes against the urge to hide. It takes all of his considerable discipline to accomplish, but when Nat looks into his eyes, he lets her  _see_.  
   
The bone-deep ache that is always there for her attention and approval. The sharp anxiety of her rejection or disdain. The wonder of this... whatever it is. The fear of what it might mean, and equal or greater apprehension of what it might not.  
   
How hard it is to relax, to trust, to not hide. To not run. To  _stay_.  
   
He must have done it right. Nat’s so pleased that it transcends mere human things like looking approving or reassuring. She looks... _hungry_ for that trust. Clint wonders for a moment if she needs this naked honesty as much as he needs her validation and attention.  
   
She swallows hard and turns away from him, reaching for a small square box on the table. Clint can tell that right now  _she’s_  hiding, but he doesn’t call her on it. He just waits for her to collect herself while she draws out a pair of silver stockings and holds them up for him to see.  
   
“Now, normally, stockings are worn with a garter,” she says slowly, fingering the material. “But I didn’t want to scare you too much the first time. These have silicone strips and elastic at the top that holds them up. Would you like to try?”  
   
She slips to one knee and holds one of the stockings open for him with her stretched fingers, smiling up at him.  
   
Clint manages to catch the question before it slips out - _The first time?_ \- and steadies himself with a hand on her strong, slender shoulder as he lifts a foot and allows her to draw the silky stocking up his leg, over his knee. She straightens the top along his thigh with the same preciseness that she used with the bra.  
   
She finishes adjusting the sheer fabric and runs her hands down from his thigh, over his calf, scratching lightly with her nails over the bottom of his foot. Clint couldn’t help another groan from escaping while looking down at her bent head, feeling his cock stir despite the tension and uncertainty and...frankly, weirdness, of this whole thing.  
   
Nat looks up with another knowing smile and offers him the other stocking.  
   
Again, she smooths it along his leg. He watches her and feels...cherished, sexy, raw and bare.  
   
“Almost done,” she says with a reassuring purr.  
   
Natasha stands again, admiring his form. Tanned skin so stark against pale satin, strong legs encased and caressed with silky, delicate nylon that sparkles when he shifts even slightly.  
   
She reaches for a box on the table, watching him as she draws out a somewhat unassuming pair of red canvas high-top sneakers.  
   
Nat smirks at his reaction.  
   
“Now, now. These are somewhat special, my dear.” She hands him one to examine while she goes to the corner of the room and picks up his discarded clothing.  
   
The shoes look completely normal on the outside - rubber sole in white and black, suede edging along the toe box, heel and along the lace holes, as well as a strap that folds over at the top of the shoe to support the ankle and cover the laces.  
   
Though they were quite a bit heavier than he expected, Clint didn’t see anything unusual about them until he looked inside the shoe itself.  
   
The cleverly designed retro lines conceal a wedge inside, raising the wearer’s heel about two and a half inches, giving the feel of a high heel shoe without the appearance of one.  
   
Natasha folds his boxers and tucks them into one of the pouf-topped fancy-bags, then passes him his jeans.  
   
“Put these on, sweet,” she says. Clint’s heart jumps at the casual affection and the surety of her direction. He takes the jeans and shivers as he pulls them up, the denim catching subtly along his stockings. He briefly wonders how it all would feel if Nat had made him shave his legs for this.  
   
Next she tosses him his t-shirt, sitting back on the couch and watching him pull it back over his head.  
   
Natasha makes a low hum of approval and he can’t help but stare at himself in the mirror, his eyes drawn to his newly-acquired breasts.  
   
“Looks good on you, yes?” she asks, flowing up from the sofa and guiding him down onto it.  Her clever fingers make short work of the laces of the sneakers, spreading the shoe open and guiding his foot into the first.  
   
Clint notices somewhat absently that it’s comfortable. Good arch support and lots of room in the toes.  
   
She swiftly tightens the laces from the bottom to the top and ties them securely with a double slip knot and smoothes the ankle strap over it.  
   
“Feel like Cinderella yet?” she teases as she prepares the second shoe.  
   
Clint muses that he does, just a little bit. He doesn’t say anything. She slides the second shoe on and lightens the laces, ties, secures.  
Then she stands again and offers him a hand up.  
   
The unfamiliar angle of the shoe tightens his calves and thighs, lifts his ass. Most of all, it makes him feel emotionally off balance, vulnerable. Clint looks at himself in the mirror and swallows.  
   
The bra makes his new breasts tent the material of his old heather gray t-shirt. The shoes - which look completely normal, but are so specially crafted inside - change the way that he moves, change his balance. The brush of his own clothes - the same ones that he wore into this place - makes it so that he can’t put his new underwear out of his mind.  
   
Nat is standing behind his left shoulder, looking at him in the mirror as well. Clint can’t help but watch her face as he looks at him. She looks younger, softer.  
   
Her hand drifts to his right hip, fingers creeping into his pocket. She leans her weight against him, nuzzling into his side.  
   
He shifts to accommodate her and drapes his muscled arm over her thin shoulders and pulls her close. This moment is shockingly intimate. Clint can’t remember a time that he has ever been so aware of his own body or his clothes. Or his emotions, his vulnerability.  
   
He swallows and tightens his arm around Nat. She sighs and melts against him, looking up at him with her face open in a way that he’s never seen before.  
   
Nat smiles up at him softly, no sarcasm or distance between them.  
   
Without a word, she turns and then holds her jacket for him to slip into. He’s not surprised that that leather fits him perfectly, just loose enough to conceal that he’s now got breasts. Sorta. She zips it up and leans up for a long, lingering, soft kiss.  
   
“Almost over,” she murmurs against his mouth. “The hard part’s done. Now you’ve just got to join me for dinner and then we’ll be square.”  
   
Clint stiffens with alarm. He never thought that she would make him go out like this. He shakes his head and steps away from her, his eyes wide.  
   
“Relax, Clint. Nobody will know, I promise.” She looks him directly in the eyes, her voice soft, like she’s talking him through dangerous territory... which he supposes that in a way she is.  
   
“I’ll make sure of it. I’ll show you how to sit, how to walk. Then one dinner out, one walk through the Tower to your room and we’re done. You’ll have learned your lesson about talking about things that you don’t know anything about.”  
   
Natasha puts out a hand and lightly strokes his jaw.  
   
“And then, since you’ve been so good, I’ll spend the night. Yes?”  
   
Clint swallows. Thinks. Finally, he nods jerkily.  
   
“Good boy,” she says reassuringly, letting out the breath that she had been holding.  
   
She gathers up the bags and the boxes on the table and precedes him out the door. On the way past, Clint snags one of the champagne flutes and drains it.  
  
  



End file.
